and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling
by caroandlyn
Summary: "Mada mada daze, Ryoma-chan." He smiled, baring a pair of perfectly white teeth. "You lost this round." :: Ryoma Echizen's life used to be normal, until his older brother arrives at school with a gun—and fires. Now, orphaned, injured, and possibly unable to play tennis forever, he must deal with the aftermath.
1. i carry your heart

**Disclaimer:** Based off of Silent Alarm, by Jennifer Banash, although not plagiarized: the basic idea was from Mrs. Banash, although the plot will be all mine. All characters are canon-compliant and can be found in either Prince of Tennis _or_ New Prince of Tennis, by Takeshi Konomi-sensei.

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 _and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling_

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prologue—

((i carry your heart))

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"Momoshiro-senpai," I said, and watched as he turned to me, the front of his fringe bouncing onto his forehead with the movement. He looked surprised at my sudden acknowledgement of his existence; I had gained a notorious reputation as the Ice Prince of the Seishun Sector, who kept to himself and spoke little, if not none at all, and had once snubbed the confessions of thirteen girls and two boys in one day. The school population and I had an unspoken contract—if they left myself alone in peace, I would not bother them, and vice versa.

"Ah, Echizen-kun, wasn't it?" he asked, not unfriendly. "You're... Ryoga-senpai's little brother, aren't you? Do you want something?" I noticed that he paused minutely before saying my brother's name, as if the word itself were a ticking time bomb, liable to explode any second. He, as well as the rest of this god-forsaken town, seemed to be under the impression that I resented my brother; rather, it was simply that Ryoga's overbearing attitude overwhelmed me more often than not, and avoiding him solved both of our problems.

I reached out a fist, revealing the small tennis racket keychain concealed within, the chain snapped cleanly in half. "You dropped this in the hallway earlier," I said curtly, more than aware now of the stares we were getting from the people around us. I had probably talked to only three people of my own volition that were not my immediate family or close friends this year, and all of them were teachers. "Please be more careful with your things, senpai."

"A-ah, I will," Momoshiro-senpai nodded, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. He dangled the broken chain in front of him almost thoughtfully, before pocketing it in one the deep folds of his khaki shorts. "Thanks for the help, Echizen-kun. I was almost afraid I'd lost it. And call me Momo-chan—Momoshiro-senpai just makes me feel old."

"Momo-senpai," I contended, raising my eyebrows, as if daring him to counter. He was tall, much taller than me, and it must have looked ridiculous with our height difference, the way I stared at him almost like I was issuing a challenge. "Calling you Momo-chan just makes me feel stupid."

He barked out a laugh, startling the crowd that had begun to gather around us. "Ha! You're a feisty one, aren't you, Echizen-kun?" He looked at me strangely, tilting his head slightly in thought, as if searching for something, and I took the time to study him as well. He was a regular of the Seigaku tennis team despite his young age, dating Tachibana An-senpai from Fudomine Sector, and in relatively good terms with Kaidoh-senpai; his grades were decent, his appearance slightly above average. Popular with his classmates and underclassmen, although most of his upperclassmen deemed him unimportant and unworthy of their time.

I blinked, and realized Momoshiro-senpai was still staring at me, waiting for me to answer him. He had apparently found what he was looking for, judging on his satisfied expression, and I arranged my face into something unreadable. "You are the more energetic one here, Momo-senpai," I remarked blandly, no longer in the mood to talk. I had said more today in public than the entirety of last year, and I could feel my energy draining away.

"Wait!" I stopped mid-step, turning my head to face him in barely veiled annoyance. Momoshiro-senpai ran a hand through his excessively gelled hair, causing it to stick up even more. "Take this, before you go." He threw something through the air towards me. I caught it, opening my mouth slightly in surprise when I made out what it was: a miniature tatami mat, the kind found in traditional Japanese dollhouses, barely the size of my palm. A single kanji character was written on it: **喜** , good fortune. "For good luck."

I looked at him, and then at the mat. Finding no reason to acknowledge him for what was simply a thank-you gift, I simply pocketed the mat inside the interior of my baggy jeans and walked away. The sea of students parted as I approached them, before dispersing by themselves.

Momoshiro-senpai's amused and almost affectionate words as I turned the corner of the hallway were not unheard: "Brat."

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The bell rang for second period just as I entered the classroom, earning the Saito-sensei's huff of exasperation as he wrote down my name for roll. My usual seat in the back had been taken by Horio, who was animatedly whispering to a group of disgusted-looking girls, and I shot him an irritated glare before looking around the classroom. The only desk remaining was in the middle of the first row, right in front of the blackboard, and I silently traipsed to it, slinging my bag over the chair.

"R-Ryoma-kun, h-hello," Sakuno stuttered from behind me, giving me a shy smile. She was possibly the only female contact I had with the world excluding my cousin and Okaa-san, although in all ways she could be considered my sister.

I gave her a stiff nod. In the stark lighting of the classroom, I could see a thin sheen of gloss over her lips, and how her eyelashes curled ever-the-slightly upwards. I still remembered the little girl who chased fearlessly after yowling cats, who scared away a would-be pickpocketer with her tennis racket, who lost both her front teeth jumping off the playground swings. The difference was unsettling.

Saito-sensei rapped twice on the blackboard sternly, and my attention turned to him. "Alright, class has begun. Attention on me, please. Textbooks to page 180; we're starting basic prepositions today—"

I reached down to scratch an itch on my calf absentmindedly, tuning out the lesson. I already knew most of the curriculum, having read the entire textbook at the start of the school year. I had come to Tenisu Gakuen hoping for a challenge, although it was revealing itself to be a monotony of sorts: black and white and grey, maybe even duller than the courses at the local public school.

At the sound of the first crack, my head snapped up and turned to the source of the sound. Saito-sensei looked annoyed, opening the door and glancing out the hallway, tapping his feet against the source of the floor in irritation. "Must be one of Mifune-sensei's kids again, playing around," he said, turning back the board and gesturing to the words written neatly on it. _In. Between. On. Under_. "No worries, one of the teachers will deal with it."

The week before, someone had tossed a smoke bomb into the toilet of the girl's bathroom, sending clouds of grey haze billowing out the windows and doors. We had to evacuate onto the track field in the middle of a particularly heavy rainstorm until the firefighters discovered that it just a prank.

There was a sharp bang. Then another. A series of small popping noises, and a muffled scream coming from somewhere inside the main building. "Calm down," Saito-sensei barked, shouting over the pandemonium. "I'm sure it's just a prank. Whoever's responsible will be dealt with swiftly." I reached inside my jeans, pulling out the tatami mat Momoshiro-senpai had given me earlier. The plastic surface of the **喜** character over the rough texture of the mat was strangely comforting as I ran it through my fingers.

The door to our classroom burst open, a third year student skidding into the teacher's desk. I vaguely recognized him as Tsubasa-senpai from the Yamabuki sector. He was panting, as if he had run a long distance, his face tinted a shade of crimson, cold sweat trailing down his cheek. His uniform was unbuttoned and hung loose on his thin frame—one shoe was missing, as if he were in a hurry and had no time to worry about anything but the bare necessities.

"What is it?" Saito-sensei asked, impatient, as if half-dressed third-years came bursting into his classroom all the time. "Which science experiment failed this time?"

"No," Tsubasa-senpai said, panting. "Gunshots. There's a guy with a gun out there at the entrance. A real one."

Everything seemed to freeze in one collective breath, motionless, a numbing terror that crept over us all. My pulse quickened rapidly, until all I could hear in my fear was that damned rhythm: _ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump_. A sharp pain distracted me from my panic; looking downwards, I found that I had gripped my palm so tightly that the nails had cut through skin.

"Get under the desks!" Saito-sensei roared. I ducked under the table, my head knocking painfully against the metal leg. The cracks became louder and closer, as well as the sound of people screaming. "Shit, the keys... the _keys_..." He cleared his desk with his arm, the objects on it clattering onto the floor. At that moment the fire alarm went off, the shrillness ringing in my ears.

The intercom crackled to life. "Attention all students, we are in an emergency situation. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill..."

"What do we do?" whispered Sakuno, her fingers clutching my arm tightly. Her voice was ragged, uneven, bordering on hysterical. "R-Ryoma-kun, I'm scared. I-I'm so _scared_." A tear trailed down her cheek, falling onto my hand.

Before I could answer, the door slammed open, and a figure completely dressed in black stepped through it. There was a pistol in his hands, and I watched the barrel fearfully, the menacing weight of it pressing down on me. All I could see was the gun, the way it advanced into the room, towards me. Sakuno stifled a sob, whispering meaningless, nonsensical words in my ear, her nails digging into my skin.

 _Bang_. _Bang_. Saito-sensei screamed, clutching his chest cavity tightly as he fell to the ground. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, choking out the guttural sounds of a dying animal as blood began to pool around him. I felt absolutely sick to my stomach, my senses filled with the strong smells of smoke and iron and scorched cloth.

There was another shot, another scream. The classroom was filled with the sound of muffled sobbing, a symphony of wails and moans. I held my breath as a pair of black sneakers walked past me, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints. More gunshots resounded, shaking the classroom to its very foundation, and I could hear the shrieks of the classes beside us. In the seat to my right, Tomoka gurgled something incomprehensible, before slumping onto the floor lifelessly, blood seeping through her red cardigan.

"No," Sakuno said shakily, reaching out a hand to grab her best friend. "No no no no _no_ —"

"You'll get caught," I hissed, pulling her back. "You can't do this—"

 _Bang_. Sakuno choked, collapsing onto me. I froze, staring at the growing bloodstain on her shoulder, feeling my brain cease functioning as something red and sticky dribbled onto my pants. "J-just a graze..." she mumbled, slowly going limp; I knew her long enough to tell when she was lying, although the way her skin slowly became clammy was obvious a factor enough.

There was a shadow suddenly above, the light dimming across her face, and slowly, I turned around and looked up. "Hey," said the man in front of me, as if we were passing by each other on the street, complete strangers. It suddenly occurred to me that we probably _were_ —there was no sign of recognition in his lifeless golden eyes as he pointed the gun towards my chest, and I could identify not who he was, either. Certainly not the boy who snuck me oranges from Ryuuzaki-obasan's prized heirloom trees, the one who read me bedtime stories in the closet as Oyagi and Okaa-san screamed vulgarities at each other.

I stared back at Ryoga, the terror from before slowly diminishing into something that felt like a forced calm. "It's been a while," I agreed, mesmerized by slanted cheeks and pointed chins.

"Mada mada daze, Ryoma-chan." He smiled, baring a pair of perfectly white teeth. "You lost this round."

 _Bang_. A searing pain stretched across my stomach, burning the skin in agony, and I screamed at my brother's retreating figure as more shots echoed in the room. I felt light-headed, the world around me spinning dizzily, before my gaze settled onto the tatami mat that had fallen out of my hands with the impact. There was a hole through the middle, the edges charred from heat, and what little remained of the **喜** were small black spots, almost nonexistent.

 _"For good luck_ _," Momoshiro-senpai said_.

"...good luck," I mumbled, disorientated. At some point, Ryoga must have left the room, the door clanging noisily behind him, but I could not remember when. The room was now almost terrifyingly silent, only the occasional moan puncturing the hush that descended upon the school. Blood covered the ground in a sea of red, slick and heavy, and even those who hadn't been shot were too horrified to move, to breathe in the smell of death and blood and smoke.

Then there were hands on my body lifting me up, voiced cooing into deafened ears, smoothing my hair. "Doctor!" someone shouted desperately, as I fluttered my eyelashes, too tired to stay awake. "This one's in critical—"

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	2. with me (i carry it

**Warning(s):** Gory stuff, swearing, inaccurate depictions of hospitals and medical terms (all doctors and interns reading this, I apologize and _please don't kill me, thank you_ ). To all those readers out there, thank you for your patronage :), and you have been warned.

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 _and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling_

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chapter one—

((with me (i carry it))

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"Echizen-kun," Saito-sensei said, exasperated, as I stifled a yawn behind the cover of the textbook. "You need to get more sleep at home. You're going to stunt your growth if you stay up so late all the time." The class tittered in tandem, amused at his words; at 151 centimeters, I was easily one of the shortest students in Tenisu Gakuen, and although my reputation as the Ice Prince preceded me, many still called me by my old nickname of Chibi.

I sulked silently, carefully keeping my expression neutral. Life was not on my side in the issue of height: Ryoga and Oyagi were both almost six feet tall, Kazuya was six feet two, and I could barely pass as five foot if I wore my platform shoes, the ones with the two inch soles.

"Ryoma-kun," Katsuo said from in front of me, giving me a wan smile. He was a few inches taller than me, but not nearly enough high as to stand out. "Don't worry too much about that. I'm sure you'll grow to be the same height as Ryoga-sama." He, like most of the other first years, worshipped the very ground my brother stood on; it had been amusing at the beginning, watching them go starry-eyed every time he walked by the hallway or came out of a classroom, but now all I could feel was a dull pang of irritation.

I opened my mouth, paused, and decided against it. "That's enough, Katsuo," Tomoka said authoritatively from the seat on my left, as if sensing my growing agitation, latching onto my arm tightly and peering at Katsuo from behind me. "Ryoma-sama will catch up to Ryoga-senpai in height for sure!" Her voice was high-pitched and loud, easily cutting through the hushed mutterings of the students around us. Curious, I looked around the front of the classroom to see how Saito-sensei had not yelled at her yet for disturbing the lesson for others.

The podium was empty. I blinked, wondering if he had gone to get supplies from the Teacher's Lounge, as he often did, but that couldn't be right. Saito-sensei never left the classroom without appointing a teacher aide to watch over us, but there was no stuttering student gazing shyly from under long bangs, no bossy student representative glaring behind sharp glasses. Something was wrong, very wrong, and the feeling prickled down my spine and under my skin, until all I could feel was the perpetual wrongness and faint sparks.

Tomoka put a hand on my shoulder gently, and I stifled a flinch at the touch. "What's wrong, Ryoma-sama?" Suddenly, her cardigan was stained with red, dripping onto me in small, sticky trickles. "You look pale." Her fingers were clammy and cold to the touch, like ice, and I watched, horrified, as her boisterous brown eyes became lifeless and glassy as well. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Around me, the class continued, unaware. Katsuo scribbled something on a sheet of paper, taking no mind of the holes that pierced through his elbow and torso. Kachiro whispered nervously to Horio, blood dribbling down his shirt, singed tears through where the breast-pocket had once been. Sakuno fidgeted on a particularly troublesome worksheet problem, all while her shoulder bled and bled and bled.

Saito-sensei moaned on the ground, bits of his brain matter joining the blood that pooled around him. Nobody seemed to notice.

"Mada mada daze," Ryoga taunted. He was suddenly in front of me, tall and imposing, the gun barrel pointing at my face. "Look at them, Ryoma—isn't this absolutely _precious_? See, this is much better than the _trash_ that _Kazuya_ _-nii_ shows you, right?" He pronounced the last name mockingly, rendering it into a high-pitched squeal. "Aren't I your favorite brother? Don't you regret leaving me now—?"

 _Bang_.

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I woke up with a start, panting shakily as memories of what had happened replayed themselves in my mind, over and over and over. My eyes felt dense, and slowly fluttering my eyelashes, I parted them—from above, I could see nothing but an endless expanse of white, faint rays of light dancing around the edges of my vision, and I wondered if I had died, that Oyagi had been wrong after all, the afterlife was real.

Then I blinked, and the illusion disappeared.

A dull grey ceiling greeted me, unassuming and repulsive. I found myself missing my cream-colored room at home already, although it had not been long since I had last been there. From my right, a quiet _whirring_ sound caught my attention; turning my head, I noticed a wide range of dubious-looking machines, the closest an ever-changing green graph that spiked and down at random intervals. A logo at the corner of the graph-machine read _Josei_ _Hospital, Tokyo_ _Prefecture_ , in loopy English writing.

"Ah, Echizen-kun, you're awake." My body felt like molten lead, heavy and painful, and I twisted my head instead to face the source of the voice. A doctor was standing in front of me—the type of woman Oyagi read about in his porn magazines, red-haired and busty. She scribbled something on a notepad, her expression inscrutable behind the glare of her glasses. Squinting, I read her nametag: _Dr._ _H. Aoi, Surgeon (Senior Consultant)_ , and in smaller letters, _Dept: None_. "You were lucky you got found when you did; I'm afraid you wouldn't have woken up if they brought you here even a few hours later than they had."

I stiffened with her words, fisting my hands into empty air. Looking down, I realized that I was lying on what seemed to be a portable bed, wearing only a hospital gown, but the embarassment of being almost naked in front of a woman that was not my mother was not nearly enough to drown out the indescribable emotion that flowed through me.

There had been a gun. Ryoga had held it with the same hands that gave me piggy-back rides after I had exhausted myself with tennis, shot me with the same fingers that had offered me oranges and ruffled my hair.

"Moderate penetrating abdominal trauma, hydrostatic shock in the tricep area, gastrointestinal bleeding, Class II hemorrhage, Stage I hypovolemic shock, as well as several other afflictions. Your state were declared stable after the surgery, although you were not responsive to any of our tests." The doctor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, frowning as she turned a page on the notepad. "You came here about a week and a half ago, and you were cleared yesterday, but we decided to keep you until you regained full consciousness."

I processed her words slowly, moving myself into a sitting position as feeling slowly regained itself in my limbs. There was something large and heavy on my left arm, and faintly annoyed, I tried to shake it off, only to realize that it was a cast. Strange. I could only remember the pain on my stomach and screaming, although if Ryoga had shot me during my lucid state it would have been understandable. A similar cast wrapped around my abdomen area, tight and uncomfortable.

Thinking about Ryoga didn't bring up any major emotions, only a vast emptiness that threatened to swallow me whole. I realized that even before he had shot me, we had long become strangers—he was a senior, about to enter Tokyo University with a scholarship in tennis, popular with everyone; and I, a freshman, was his less-skilled, less handsome younger brother, an afterthought, who had few friends and spent most of his time alone, and was admired only by afar and the occasional confession. We were worlds apart from the small tennis court drawn under the apple grove in our childhood years, the marks he had carved into the dirt with a stick long gone with the winds of time.

"Where are my parents." My voice was flat, hoarse with disuse, and I coughed awkwardly, trying to get the vile taste of medicine out of my mouth. "I hope Oyaji didn't cause you too much trouble with his porn magazines."

The doctor stared at me, unreadable, although I could sense the hesitation she felt, how I did not immediately go into hysterics after awakening. "There's a man from the police station who wants to talk to you," was all she said, her voice toneless. "He'll answer all your questions." She gestured to a pile of clothing on the table to my left, all which I recognized as my own. "Change into these, first." She pulled a set of curtain around the bed, before exiting the makeshift chamber, giving me a semblance of privacy. As the door slammed, I heard her voice, muffled through the walls, say sharply: " _He's awake. You can come in now_." Footsteps echoed through the room, shaking the floor.

I slipped on the shirt and pants, noting how the burn holes I knew to be there were expertly stitched up and washed. The bloodstains were almost unnoticeable—squinting, I could make out only a faint outline from where the blood had dried and crusted. It seemed wrong, somehow, to wear something so _dirty_ —I knew when I could finally leave the hospital, the first thing on my priority list would be to burn them and never look back.

A pair of plastic geta sandals were waiting for me at the side of the bed, and walking unsteadily out of the curtains, I stared into a familiar face.

"Ryoma." Kazuya sounded relieved, and exhausted. Dark rings surrounded his eyes like plates, and his skin was unhealthily white. I stared at him, confused—he was in his second year of college overseas along with Nanako, and as far as I knew, the two of them were busy with studying for finals. What was he doing here, in Japan? It was not as if I would be alone in my recovery—Okaa-san and Oyagi were probably driving the doctors up the walls already.

The man next to him coughed uncomfortable. He was tall, with light brown hair and high cheekbones that jutted out on either side of his face. "Echizen-san," he said, giving a wan smile, "I'm Inoue from the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. I'm here to ask you about..." he paused, delicately clearing his throat, and looking around the room as if checking for something. "...your brother."

I had expected this, as well as the numerous reporters that were sure to swarm the hospital as soon as my recovery was announced, but not so soon as the moment I was cleared to go. "Did my parents allow this?" I asked, frowning. "They should be here. I want them with me." I knew I sounded young and immature, but the full weight of what had happened was starting to press on me, something much too heavy for me to shoulder.

Inoue bit his lip, looking away. "Echizen-san..." he trailed off, looking expectantly at Kazuya. "How do I say this..."

"What is it?" I asked, almost impatient.

"Did Ryoga act strangely before the shooting? Did he say anything that hinted towards mental instability?" Inoue asked, but I had enough experience to recognize someone changing the subject when it came up.

"Where are my parents?" I said again, narrowing my eyes when he didn't answer immediately.

Kazuya suddenly wrapped two hands around my shoulders, and I froze at the unexpected contact. As far as I remembered, Kazuya was a mostly keep-to-himself kind of person, who had a rather large sense of personal space. Hugs were usually from Okaa-san and Nanako—perhaps once, Ryoga had given them to me, but those memories were far too in the past for me to dig up.

"Ryoma, listen to me," Kazuya said, pulling away, looking at me through narrowed grey eyes. He was shaking so hard I felt my teeth chattering, although his face was as composed as ever.

"They're dead."

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End file.
